Chapter Text
Of course, Remus believed in soulmates. It would be a little silly not to. He turned into a monster once a month—what was a cosmic thread tying two souls together compared to that? He didn’t believe he had one, though. Soulmates were for people who were whole, untouched by the kind of jagged, cruel things that shaped him.
He had come to terms with it a long time ago, accepted that whatever force decided these things would overlook him. He wasn't bitter about it, not really. It was just the way things were. Some people were made to belong to someone else, and some people were made to be alone.
Remus just so happened to be the latter.
And truly, it was a mercy. A soulmate was meant to be a safe place, a harbor against the storm—but he was the storm, wasn’t he? Unpredictable, dangerous, leaving destruction in his wake whether he meant to or not. What kind of love could he offer when his own hands were stained with the wreckage of his worst nights?
No, fate had been kind to him, in its own cruel way. If he had a soulmate, he would have only ruined them.
Sometimes—though he’d take the secret to his grave—he let himself wonder.
When he lay in bed, aching and raw, skin too tight over bruised ribs, exhaustion pressing down on him like a second skin, the thought crept in. It was easy to ignore in the daylight, easy to pretend he didn’t care. But in the dead of night, when sleep wouldn’t come and the silence was too loud, he wondered.
What would it be like to have someone who stayed? Someone who didn’t turn away when the worst of him bled through the cracks? Someone who saw him—every jagged, broken piece—and chose to love him anyway?
It was a dangerous thought. Hope was a sharp thing, and he had learned not to hold it too tightly. But sometimes, in the quiet, when the world wasn’t watching, he let himself imagine.
He imagined it was soft, having a soulmate.
Not grand or earth-shattering, not some cosmic force pulling him into something too big to hold—but something quiet. Gentle. A steady presence beside him when the world felt too cruel, a hand reaching for his own without hesitation. He imagined warmth, the kind that seeped into his bones, the kind that didn’t ask him to be anything more than what he was.
Maybe it was the feeling of fingers carding through his hair after a full moon, or a voice murmuring his name like it was something worth saying. Maybe it was laughter that never carried a sharp edge, or the certainty of someone choosing him, again and again, without question.
He would never know for sure. But in the dark, when the ache in his chest became too much to bear, he imagined. And for a little while, that was enough.
If he lingered on it long enough, allowed himself to indulge in a dream—a wish that would never come—he could almost convince himself that it was real.
Like if he reached out just far enough, he might find a hand waiting for his. Like if he closed his eyes and listened closely, he might hear a voice murmuring his name, steady and sure. Some part of his soul, trampled by years of unfair fates and broken bones, seemed to remember what it was like. As if, once upon a time, before the world had carved him into something sharp and weary, he had been loved that deeply.
It was a cruel trick of the mind, an echo of something he had never truly known. But still, on the loneliest nights, he let himself believe. Even if only for a moment.
James, ever the optimist, always reasoned that the time would come. That fate, or the universe, or whatever force governed things like soulmates, wouldn’t be so cruel as to overlook Remus forever.
Remus never had the heart to crush those dreams outright. It was easier to let James believe—to let him fill the spaces Remus refused to touch with his relentless hope. James was the very definition of a romantic, the kind of person who believed in grand gestures and inevitable love stories, in fated meetings and unshakable bonds. He spoke about soulmates like they were a promise, a certainty written into the fabric of the world.
But Remus knew better. Some people weren’t meant for things like that. Some people weren’t made for fate’s kindness. And no matter how much James insisted otherwise, Remus had long accepted that he was one of them.
James had found his match early on, so of course, he thought his friends’ time would come. It simply had to.
The universe wasn’t that cruel—surely, after everything, after the wreckage life had already thrown at them, there had to be some kind of balance. Some kind of reconciliation. James needed to believe that. That the people he loved, the people who had already endured more than their fair share of suffering, would find something good waiting for them in the end.
He was relentless in that belief, stubborn in the way only James Potter could be. And Remus—tired, pragmatic, painfully realistic Remus—never had the heart to argue. Because James had found his person, and love had never failed him. Of course he thought it was only a matter of time before the rest of them did too.
But Remus knew better. Some debts didn’t get repaid. Some people weren’t waiting for fate to even the score. Some people just lost. And there was no bigger loser to fate’s games than Remus.
The wolf, however, seemed to have different plans.
The beast that lurked beneath his skin—the thing that threatened to consume him, body and soul—was motivated by something far less rational, far more primal. Baser instincts. It didn’t care for logic, for caution, for the careful walls Remus had spent years constructing around himself.
No, the wolf recognized something in her. It prowled beneath his skin, restless and sharp, clawing at the edges of his control. It was aware in a way that made Remus uneasy, in a way that made his pulse stutter. Because the wolf had no patience for restraint. It only knew hunger, only understood desire in its rawest, most undeniable form.
And for some reason, she had its full attention. At first, Remus reasoned that it was because it was her .
He’d be surprised if there was anyone at Hogwarts who didn’t fancy her. She was beautiful— achingly so, in a way that made a person hesitate, just to make sure she was real. But it wasn’t just that. Beauty alone wasn’t enough to make the wolf stir, to make it watch.
No, it was the way she carried herself. The way kindness seemed to spill from her effortlessly, like it wasn’t something she had to think about, like it was stitched into her very being. She was warm in a way that made people gravitate toward her, like she belonged in the light, untouched by the kind of shadows that followed him everywhere he went.
That had to be it. Just admiration, just the simple fact that she was someone anyone would be drawn to. Her kindness and her light were real, not like his own that he was half-convinced he only mustered so people didn’t look too intently at him
And yet, the wolf growled its disagreement.
It all came to a head a few months short of graduation.
After years of the wolf willing Remus to go to her, to speak to her, to just reach out —he had resisted. Again and again, stubborn in his self-imposed exile. He told himself it was for the best. That she was better off without the weight of him pressing against her light. That whatever force had made the wolf restless in her presence had nothing to do with fate and everything to do with his own weakness.
He didn’t want to bother her. Didn’t want to risk dragging her into the mess of him, into the chaos of a life that had never been kind. He thought he could ignore it. That he could pretend the pull wasn’t there.
But then something happened—something inevitable, something inescapable. And just like that, all those years of careful distance unraveled in an instant.
─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
James threw a party—because of course he did—while his parents were away visiting an aunt. The Potter house was the perfect place for it, sprawling and full of hidden corners, big enough to fit half of Hogwarts without feeling crowded.
Remus hadn’t expected to stay long. He rarely did at these things. He’d nurse a drink, make sure Sirius didn’t end up dancing on the furniture again, and then slip away before the night got too messy.
He certainly hadn’t expected to see her .
But there she was, standing in the warm glow of the lanterns, laughing at something someone had said, completely at ease. And just like that, every carefully built wall he had put between them felt paper-thin. He let himself admire her for a while. Sue him. She was bloody gorgeous, and he was just a man—one with eyes, with a heart that apparently had no interest in listening to logic, and with a wolf inside him that was absolutely howling at the sight of her. Before he knew it, she was moving, weaving through the crowd—probably on her way to get another drink.
It all happened too fast, a series of events straight out of one of those god-awful romcoms Sirius claimed to watch ‘for a laugh’. One second, she was walking, the next, someone barreled past her, too caught up in their own drunken stumble to notice. She wobbled, just slightly, thrown off balance—and before Remus could think, before he could talk himself out of it, his hand shot out to steady her.
Warmth. That was the first thing he noticed. The solid, unmistakable warmth of her beneath his touch. His fingers curled gently around her arm, grounding, protective. The wolf in him stilled for the first time in years, maybe ever, humming in quiet satisfaction at the contact.
“Careful,” he said, voice quieter than he meant for it to be.
And then she looked up at him—eyes wide, startled, meeting his in a way that made something in his chest lurch.
They had spoken before—fleeting, brief, inconsequential moments exchanged in passing. A polite nod in the library, a shared glance in the Great Hall, the occasional murmured thanks when she passed him a quill in class. But they had never touched. Never had a reason to.
But now that they had…
It was like watching lifetimes pass through in seconds. A body that wasn’t his, a body that wasn’t hers—two souls recognizing what their bodies never had the chance to. Revering in finally being reunited after passing by each other for years.
A rush of something ancient and undeniable flooding through him, so sudden and overwhelming that he almost pulled away on instinct. As if some part of him—something buried deep beneath logic, beneath restraint, beneath years of quiet denial—had woken up and was screaming at him all at once.
You sodding idiot, she’s been here the whole time!
The wolf knew it. Had known it long before Remus ever allowed himself to entertain the thought. And now, with the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, with her eyes locked onto his like she felt it too —there was no ignoring it anymore
“Thank you,” her voice was soft, barely more than a murmur, and Remus shouldn’t have been able to hear it over the music pounding through the walls. But somehow, he did. As if the universe had tuned out the rest of the world just for this moment, just for her.
And suddenly, nothing else mattered. Not the party, not the sea of bodies swaying around them, not even the fact that this was the kind of moment he always scoffed at—some ridiculous, overdone cliché lifted straight from a bad romance novel.
He had thought himself above this sort of thing. He wasn’t James , falling headfirst into love like it was the easiest thing in the world. He wasn’t Sirius , chasing passion wherever he could find it. He was Remus. Practical. Careful. Distant.
And yet, here he was. Holding her like he’d been waiting his whole life to.
It took a moment for Remus to find his voice, and even longer for him to force his fingers to loosen, to remove his hold on her when every instinct in him screamed don’t.
“Uh—no problem, really, you should just… are you alright?” he asked, the words stumbling out, awkward and uncertain.
The second he broke contact, the wolf howled mournfully inside him. A deep, aching protest, as if they had been separated by miles —by oceans —instead of mere inches. As if letting go of her was some kind of terrible mistake, some fundamental wrong that his very bones rebelled against.
Remus clenched his fists at his sides, grounding himself in the familiar routine of restraint. He told himself it was nothing. A fleeting moment, a trick of the mind, an overreaction born from years of loneliness and wishful thinking.
But the wolf knew better. And no matter how hard Remus tried to ignore it, he did too.
Soulmates were a tricky thing. Rare, but not unheard of. A soul destined for another, woven together by whatever force governed such things—be it magic, fate, or something even older than either.
The ways of finding them differed, varying from person to person. Some were subtle, quiet revelations, like puzzle pieces clicking into place after years of searching. Others were dramatic, impossible to ignore—names appearing on skin, first words burning into memory, an invisible string tugging two people toward each other no matter how far they strayed.
Many of these signs were well-known, familiar enough to be the basis of a hundred Muggle romances, dismissed as fiction by those who had never felt them firsthand. But those who had —those who knew —understood that there was truth in the stories. That when it happened, there was no mistaking it.
And for the first time in his life, Remus felt the creeping, undeniable suspicion that he had been terribly, terribly mistaken about his own fate.
Because the way she looked at him—with eyes his soul recognized , perhaps not the same color or shape, but known all the same—meant something.
Meant everything.
And so, as Remus was known to do, the moment even the smallest shred of light came near his darkened soul—he ran.
He didn’t wait for her answer. Didn’t wait to see if she was actually alright, if she had noticed the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long, if she had felt it too. He just bolted.
It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t subtle. One second he was standing there, heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to break free, and the next he was pushing past the crowd, ducking into the nearest empty corridor like a coward.
Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? He was a coward.
The wolf raged at him, furious and unrelenting, snarling its protest at the distance he had forced between them. But Remus ignored it. He knew better. Knew that whatever cruel trick fate was playing on him, whatever this was —it wasn’t meant for him.
He had spent his whole life keeping people safe from himself. He wasn’t about to stop now.
And if it were true—if fate had been so cruel as to tie a girl like that to someone like him —then… then he would just catch her in the next life.
Maybe then, in a different time, in a different body, he wouldn’t be something fractured, something ruined before he even had the chance to be whole. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have to fight the instinct to reach for her, wouldn’t have to run just to keep her safe and he could simply let himself be. Let himself be envelope in the warmth he knew he would find if one touch had sent him into a spiral.
But in this life, in this body, in this moment—he knew better.
So, he ignored the concerned looks from his friends—looks he hadn’t even noticed at first, too caught up in his own internal war.
James, brows furrowed in confusion, already halfway to asking what the hell had just happened. Sirius, arms crossed, watching him like he knew —like he had already pieced together the thing Remus refused to name. Even Peter, usually oblivious to anything that wasn’t explicitly spelled out, had stopped mid-sip of his drink, eyes darting between Remus and where she still stood.
They had seen everything. The way he had reached for her. The way he had lingered. And now, the way he was running.
But he couldn’t deal with that right now. Couldn’t stomach whatever knowing remark Sirius had locked and loaded, couldn’t bear James’ infuriating optimism or Peter’s half-hearted attempts to lighten the mood.
So he clenched his jaw, shoved his hands into his pockets, and kept walking.
And when the wolf howled inside his chest, mourning something it had barely even had , he willed it to shut up.
It had no right to wail mournfully for her, it was the reason Remus needed to put distance between him and the one good thing the universe had ever offered him.
The wolf had no claim to sorrow, not when it was the very thing that made him unworthy. It was the reason he couldn't have soft things, couldn't hold onto warmth without the fear of ruining it. It was why he had to keep running, why he had to push her away before she got too close, before she looked at him the way he wanted her to and made him believe—for even a second—that he could have this.
So he gritted his teeth, ignored the hollow ache in his chest, and walked faster.
The wolf could mourn all it wanted. It changed nothing.
─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
The wolf got its recompense during the next full moon.
Transformations were always difficult —all the years in the world wouldn’t make them easy —but they were routine. An ache, a pain, a suffering he had long since come to terms with. Something he expected.
But this? This was different.
He had woken up in the shack, his body a war zone of torn flesh and bruises, deeper wounds than usual carving their way across his skin. James did his best to keep his face carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed him. There was worry in them. And something else, something more hesitant—because James knew too. Maybe not the full truth, but enough.
He didn’t remember anything from that night—he never did—but from what he was told, it had been awful.
James had been the one to say it first, carefully casual, as if trying not to spook him. “You weren’t yourself last night, mate.”
As if he ever was.
Sirius was less delicate about it. “You were feral , Moons. More than usual. Wouldn’t settle. Didn’t recognize us at first. Even when you did, you didn’t care.”
That part made his stomach turn. The wolf had always known them, its pack, the ones it would die to protect. But something had changed. Something had snapped.
It was Peter’s quiet, nervous voice that sealed it. “You kept trying to go back.”
And just like that, he knew.
The wolf had spent the night hunting for her.
He felt sick.
The self inflicted gashes were further proof. Once the beast realized there was no escaping, no bypassing the Willow or the dog or the stag, no finding her —it turned its frustrations on the only one it could.
Remus.
Sirius was uncharacteristically silent, his usual post-moon quips nowhere to be found. Peter wouldn’t even meet his gaze.
That was the worst part.
Because they had seen. They had watched as the wolf raged , as it clawed and tore at itself, furious and desperate , driven by something beyond even its own primal instincts.
It hadn’t just wanted freedom.
It had wanted her.
And the worst part?
Remus wasn’t entirely sure that next time, he’d be able to stop it.
The group made their way back in relative silence.
James walked beside him, close enough that their arms nearly brushed, like he was waiting for Remus to stumble. He appreciated it. He knew every bone in James’ body wanted to help him, but he gave Remus the dignity of not giving it unless expressly asked. James didn’t say anything—not yet—but the way he kept sneaking glances at him, brow furrowed in concern, spoke volumes.
Sirius trailed a few steps behind, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his usual swagger absent. It wasn’t like him to hold his tongue, especially after a rough moon, but there was something calculating in his silence. Like he was waiting for the right moment to poke. To say something Remus didn’t want to hear.
Peter kept the farthest distance, his shoulders tense, gaze flickering between them, like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to speak.
And Remus?
He just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. On ignoring the sting of fresh wounds, the lingering echoes of something wrong settling deep into his bones.
He should have felt relief that the night was over. That the wolf had been contained. That nothing irreversible had happened.
But all he could think about was her and how he had a sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.